Ravings Poems

There Is Sanity

There is sanity 
In my madness, 
If only it could be found, 
For you’ll find 
My ravings if unravelled, 
Are actually quite profound.

Oh Notepad

It's here
I dump my thoughtful odes
The words unchecked
As brain downloads

This snow white
Electric paper faux
Is where my heart-felt
Ravings go

I tap, delete
I type and scroll
Construct a rhyme
Pithy and droll

The black on ivory
Stark and crude
To deeper feelings
Will allude

So as this self
Effacing track
Develops with it's 
Clicky clack

I meditate
On all before
Invite them in
As if by door

To life and love
To hope and loss
To friendships, new
To birth or cross

With thankful heart
And no disdane
For poet's muse
Doth still remain

The Stooge and the Vixen - In Trumps Own Words

Bragg's just an ass, a poor leftist stooge
Bought for in full by the Soros machine,
Why target me when he knows he will lose
His obvious intentions malicious and mean.

As to that Stormy, a vixen indeed,
She's now named me ‘Tiny’ can't clearly be true,
Her one claim to fame fueled by greed
The day I first met her is the day I now rue.

But let them come on these little red ants,
For they fail to see that if their venom may sting
Their incredible ravings and irascible rants
Provide the real juice to make my fans sing.

In chorus the cry my name in support
The Trump flags unfurled throughout this great land,
Denouncing the wrongs of my reign cut so short,
Making it known where each of them stand.

I've said it before but I'll say it again,
They stole what was mine for the very last time,
But this go around I'll make it quite plain
Whatever they throw will fade just like slime.

To Be a Poet, Oft Strong Commands Come At Night

To Be A Poet, Oft Strong Commands Come At Night

Oh, gawd- comes raging middle of the night
This horrid current, rise up and now write
An electric jolt, firing through me bones
Of new fortress looming, huge granite stones
And that tingle surging from old waking soul
As pagan's carving of a totem pole
Words spilling out from a resistant heart
Pen and paper screaming, hurry let's start!

Stumbling amidst and across dim-lit room
Word flowing from life or else dreaded doom
Splash, splash as ink and paper newly wed
Old verses, that a spirited mind said
Some few flavored with Shakespearean awe
Other's cuttings from old lumberjack's saw!

And I, vessel to set these ravings down
Of love, a princess in her golden gown
Dancing slowing across a ballroom floor
One never knows what else comes through that door!

Robert J. Lindley, Nov. 2nd 1978
Rhyme, 
( When Poetry  Forces A Poet To Wake Up  And Write )

Life On Line

Oh, latest iPad, may I hang thee,
From the nearest garden tree!

A Grinch, thou art and nothing more.
Causing me, endless problems galore!

As always, Safari is to blame?
Almost a tune, that puts me to shame.

Why is it I , who is always at fault?
I dream of joyful days of saddleshoes 
and malts.

Of humanity speaking, face to face.
And of being social, was of no disgrace!

Typewriters and mail, oh how I love!
This electronic age, hardly hand in my glove.

I miss the aroma of fresh, pencil shavings.
Thus goes, my off the wall nightly ravings.

People no longer look at the beauty of one
another.
Pasty- faced countenances adoring their beloved,
electronic other !

A ghost faced, global society?
Which dreams a worthless vaccine 
can save humanity?

I despise propopganda with my entire being.
And on our devices, is all right we are seeeing.


                   9/30/2021

All Who Write Poetry

 
I have an obsession and fixation
for words and writing poetry  
where I can get wrapped in melancholia
or become free-floating in euphoria
sometimes I get quite unhinged
but I just have this urge to pen
even death for it part of my life
since my childhood  
but this writing madness is my thirst
and I must feed this passion
this compulsion in order to still my ravings
oh in nature I get lost in my mind
and I have a deep love for flowing streams
and quiet green hued forests
where birds sing me a symphony 
oh yes my ink must fall on white paper daily
or I am sure madness would invade my mind
and lunacy would not be far off
but that is silly or is it
for these fits of mania are just
the hunger and need of 
all who write poetry

__________________
June 23, 2021


Poetry/Verse/all who write poetry
Copyright Protected, ID 06-1366-313-23
All Rights Reserved, 2021, Constance La France

Written for the Standard contest, All Yours (June 23)
sponsor, Brian Strand, Judged 06/24/2021

First Place

Mad Ravings of a Woke Libtard

to paraphrase the original liberal ~ love y’all


                                 ***

I Thank You Trump

I thank you trump
Your trumpty dump dump dump
Has taught me to thump sump and 
Shown me the runk of the junk of the world.

Your ravings have released cravings
Mavings, havings on all who have stavings
Belavings us into redravings
Leaving all to flap in the torrents

We see you go, flow, mow
Unhitching your ego, fleego, steego meego
Amigo in torrents of pleegos and stum

This is where you left me
Heft me, reft me

An Innocent Childhood Memory

"Peacock feathers will grow"
If kept in a book ,nourished by pencil shavings;
I raised brow!
 
Probing to test~
Borrowed some from my friend's savings;
With zest.

Inclined
By false ravings--
Pined!!

"Peacock feathers will grow"
Borrowed some from my friend's savings;
Pined..!!

31-7-2020

Disclaimer: Written in memory of my school classmates.
Special dedication to my bestiee "Vishal Arun Raj" who 
appears in my poem:-)

First Place in the contest:-)
Note:Let's Minichu on an innocent Childhood Memory 
Poetry contest
Sponsored by Mohan Chutani.

New Rhyme scheme (MINICHU): Aba, cBc, dbD, ABD invented by C.Mohan.
Stanza 1: 6,12,3 (3 × 2,4,1)
Stanza 2: 4,8,2 ( 2 × 2,4,1)
Stanza 3: 2,4,1
Stanza 4: 6,8,1.

O Sacred Muse, How You Inspire Me So

O sacred Muse, how you inspire me so
     to write lines of a greater madness,
to sing of ethereal heights they never know!

From deep inside my soul, where ravings grow,
     you transport me to pinnacles of gladness,
O sacred Muse (and then inspire me so!).

And so I go, from that which I best know
     to wilder things like ecstatic happiness,
to sing of ethereal heights they never know. 

Then write I songs of a more manic glow,
     and forswear ditties of forlorn sadness,
O sacred Muse (when you inspire me so!).

For all know that gay lines do better flow,
     and make a more pleasing sound of sweetness
to enhance ethereal heights they never know. 

So, now, for this mad swan do God's breath blow
     stronger with thy gifts, thou fairest goddess,
O sacred Muse:—for you inspire me so,
and sing of ethereal heights I well know!

Woke Or Woken

Woke or woken?

I am a middle-class player
So some politicians say
Not in so many words
But in their interesting way

You’ve heard it, haven’t you?
The ravings of some pure, enlightened and woke capital-city greeny
So our deputy ruler said
At least I am not brain dead I thought
Caught between reality and their world
Woke I guess to their untruths
Where disbelief governs
And smothers all others
Including me, and you

Their coven accepts no members without money
Millions give way to billions
We wage earners know our place
And live our lives resigned to a space
That contradicts our daily life
I must be off my face
Such words are madness are they not, woke greenie?

Just a middle-class thinker
Who hankers for a world
Of democracy where we workers run the joint
And share the wealth we create
With love, not hate
It is too late perhaps
But what would I know?
A pure, enlightened and woke capital-city greeny
I wear your insults as a badge of pride
There is nowhere to hide, politicians and the billionaires
We care, they do not
Get rid of the lot

I Know Some of Life's Sorrows, Fate Decrees Everlasting

I Know Some Of Life's Sorrows, Fate Decrees Everlasting

I saw seven dying newborn white horses
I stumbled upon seventeen darken courses
I ran through twenty-seven ancient burnt temples
I found love may be hard, even when life is simple.

I sat at thirty-seven broken wooden tables
I listen intently to forty-seven mystical fables
I kissed sweetly fifty-seven kindhearted virgins
I sat in ocean fires with flaming tides  surging.

I spoke sixty-seven times of my cravings
I cried out seventy-seven of my maddest ravings
I sang eighty-seven songs of death and devastation
I recall the best and worse of me without hesitations.

I wonder if hundred-seven years would be worth living
I think I need hundred twenty-seven years for forgiving
I beg for hundred thirty-seven days of deepest fasting
I know some of life's sorrows, Fate decrees everlasting.

R.J. Lindley, Sept 20th. 1976, December 11th, 2019
Rhyme, ( The Roads That Fate And Destiny Set Upon Us )
- Where the mystical shadow dances and blows.-

Our New Almost Vice Principal

She introduced herself to the staff as their new vice-principal.
It was not the truth,
Not quite a lie yet either.
In truth, she had
Warned the principal
She was after his job.
The principal did not get to choose
His own staff, and human resources
Had hired and sent him this
 maladroit interloper in July.
He knew her quite well by the
Time the rest of the staff arrived
In August.
She was rapidly labelled an
unwelcome fussbudget. In
hours the staff knew to stay away from
her in droves, not listening
to her ravings or keen suggestions
for improvement on their inept performances.
Her most confident area, of course was self-confidence.
She had it in oodles and arches,
And she displayed it
With the skill of
a clumsy peacock, holding an exceptionally casual bull horn.
The last they heard her about her, she had complained to HR that her frustration level was through the roof, they were boobs, and she was leaving.    
A little celebration good-bye party was held in her honor two weeks after she left
at the principal's house.
Now who forgot to invite her?

Feeding My Passion

Am I living a delusion? 
for I have
a mania, a verbo grapho obsession
oh yes, I have a fixation
for words and writing . . . 
sometimes, I am wrapped in melancholia
free-floating in strangeness
euphoria is when I am writing necro
unhinged, perhaps
maybe
I just have this urge to pen death
after all death has been my best friend
since forever it seems  
but, in general
this writing madness is my daily thirst
I must feed my passion
my compulsion, my ravings
in nature I get lost in my mind
I have a fancy for flowing streams
and quiet forests
where birds sing insanity . . . 
my ink must fall on white daily
or I am sure madness would invade
oh, lunacy may not be far off
I feel that I am locked in a bottle
unable to escape
oh, that is silly
these fits of mania are just
the hunger and need of
a writer . . . 

___________________
October 20, 2017

Poetry/Free Verse/Feeding My Passion
Copyright Protected, ID 10-9573-79-20
All Rights Reserved, 2017, Constance La France

Feeding My Passion

Am I living a delusion, for I have
a mania, a verbo grapho obsession
oh yes, I have a fixation
for words and writing . . . 
sometimes I am wrapped in melancholia
free-floating in strangeness
euphoria is when I am writing necro
unhinged, perhaps
maybe
I just have this urge to pen death
after all death has been my best friend
since forever it seems . . . 
but in general
this writing madness is my daily thirst
I must feed my passion
my compulsion, my ravings
in nature I get lost in my mind
I have a fancy for flowing streams
and quiet forests
where birds sing insanity . . . 
my ink must fall on white daily
or I am sure madness will invade
oh, lunacy may not be far off
oh, that is silly
these fits of mania are just
the hunger and need of
a writer . . . 

___________________
October 20, 2017


Poetry/Free Verse/Feeding My Passion
Copyright Protected, ID 18-9511-76-0
All Rights Reserved.  Written Under Pseudonym.


Submitted to the contest , A Stunner 2017
Sponsor, Line Gauthier

Second Place 

__________________________
Written for the contest, Mania
Sponsor  Lewis Raynes

NA

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